


before the beginning

by ictus



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Basically a Whole Load of Klaus Whump, Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Nightmares, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pre-Canon, Sibling Incest, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:08:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29095527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ictus/pseuds/ictus
Summary: Even though it’s been twelve years, Ben still hasn’t figured out how this whole ‘haunting’ thing works. He's tried everything, has tested anything that might offer an explanation as to why he's sometimes more real and other times morenot, but he’s still no closer to uncovering the truth.Klaus thinks he might have a theory worth testing, though.
Relationships: Ben Hargreeves/Klaus Hargreeves
Comments: 12
Kudos: 46
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	before the beginning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadowsapiens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowsapiens/gifts).



> Shadow—thank you so much for donating to Border Angels way back in February, and thank you for your patience with this fic! I can only hope it's worth the wait.
> 
> Also, an enormous thank you to my wonderful beta asuralucier for not only beta reading this fic in record time, but also for cheering me on for the better part of a year, and for being an invaluable sounding board. I'm not sure what I'd do without you! ♥

Even though it’s been twelve years, Ben still hasn’t figured out how this whole ‘haunting’ thing works.

As a ghost, Ben exists outside the laws of physics, passing through walls and drifting through solid objects. In fact, Ben’s very existence defies the laws of nature—if you could even call it _existing_.

But there are some things that don’t add up.

Although Ben is immaterial, he can pass through walls, but not through floors. He can pick up a book, but he can’t open a door. Light passes through him, and yet he can see; he has no breath, and yet he can speak.

In short, Ben is comprised entirely of contradictions. And even though Ben has tried everything, has tested anything that might offer an explanation as to why he's sometimes more real and other times more _not_ , he’s still no closer to uncovering the truth.

Klaus thinks he might have a theory worth testing, though.

*

“Maybe you just don’t have the right, you know—” A pause. “Motivation,” Klaus finishes.

Ben cracks open an eye. For a someone as scattered as Klaus, non-sequiturs are the status quo. It takes Ben a good twenty seconds to pick up the thread of their long-abandoned conversation, and by the time he does, Klaus is impatient.

“Are you even listening to me?” Klaus asks.

“I was sleeping.”

Klaus scoffs. “Please, you don’t need sleep. You haven’t been properly conscious in years.”

“Sometimes I get tired,” Ben mumbles, but Klaus is already steamrolling him.

“No, but think about it,” he says, his eyes bright in the dim room. “Maybe you need an extra little push to be able to manifest. Some sort of, I don’t know, _life or death_ event.”

“If this is a joke about my premature and incredibly traumatic death, then—”

“I’m not joking,” Klaus says quickly. “In fact, you could even say I’m—”

“Don’t say it.”

“—deadly serious,” Klaus finishes.

Ben presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. He manages to stifle a sigh, but only just. “Klaus, it’s the middle of the night.”

“Time isn’t real,” Klaus counters easily. “Anyway, I think we should try this out.”

This time, Ben actually does sigh. “Klaus, we’ve tried everything. How do you expect to manufacture a situation so dire that I’ll be able to defy the laws of nature and suddenly become corporeal?”

Silence falls over the room. Klaus picks at his fingernails, suddenly more interested in his nailbeds than continuing the conversation.

Ben figures that Klaus’s proposition is a mere fantasy, some sort of whimsy rather than an actual plan to be carried through to fruition. Besides, Ben’s own response is nothing more than a hypothetical, having exactly zero grounding in reality. In the absence of a response, Ben decides to drop the matter entirely.

Looking back, this was his first mistake.

*

“I’m bored,” Ben says for what feels like the hundredth time. “Can we go yet?”

Klaus either doesn’t hear him or else chooses to ignore him—it’s always a fifty-fifty when it comes to him—and Ben’s irritation ratchets up a notch. They’re huddled outside the side exit of a club, somewhere with a forgettable name, with the same bright lights and thumping bass as every other club in the city. It’s freezing, or at least it must be given the way Klaus is shivering in his too thin t-shirt. But Klaus seems unbothered.

“Seriously, we’ve been here for hours,” Ben insists. “What are we even doing here?”

Klaus lights a cigarette in favour of responding, leaning against the wall of the club as he takes a drag. His face is briefly illuminated by the copper glow of the flame, confirming what Ben already knows:

The dilated pupils, the unfocused eyes… yeah, Klaus is _fucked_ , so far off his face that Ben’s surprised he’s even standing. Klaus is right on schedule, too: it’s been ten minutes since he snorted whatever that was in the bathroom, and five since he washed it down with two shots of vodka he didn’t pay for. And now, Klaus is sagging against the brickwork, bringing the cigarette to his lips in a way that’s borderline obscene, as Ben tries desperately not to stare at his hands, his lips, his throat.

“Klaus,” Ben says, his mouth gone dry. “Klaus, c’mon—”

“Oh quit your yapping,” Klaus snaps, swatting at Ben as he would a mosquito. His hand passes right through Ben’s arm, completely ineffectual.

“I just think we should get going.”

“We’re leaving when I say we’re leaving,” Klaus says around his cigarette.

Ben sighs. Autonomy. Free will. Once upon a time, he had these things. “Klaus, I really think we should—”

Klaus shushes him. Ben’s just on the point of overriding him when he hears it too:

Voices. _Male_ voices. Loud and drunk and growing closer by the second.

“Klaus,” Ben murmurs as the men turn into their side-street. There are four—no, five of them, each of them as burly as the last. They’re stumbling, roughhousing and pushing each other around.

“Shh, just watch this,” Klaus whispers to Ben. Then he straightens up and shouts in the general direction of the men, “Yoo-hoo, boys!”

A couple of the guys turn, fixing Klaus with bleary-eyed stares. Ben’s heart sinks. This isn’t going anywhere good.

Klaus waits until he’s holding their attention before shouting, “Sorry to interrupt your evening and all, but I was wondering if any of you fine gents had my money?”

One of the guys—the biggest one—slowly rounds on Klaus, a big, dumb smile spreading across his big, dumb face. “Why would I have your money?” he spits.

Klaus takes another drag, pausing for effect. “Well you see, I screwed your mom last night and she still owes me my fee, if you catch my drift.”

_“Seriously?”_ Ben mutters, but it’s drowned out by a very loud, “The fuck did you say?” from the idiot leading the pack. The guy casts a glance over his shoulder at his friends who nod in response then draw closer, forming a half circle around Klaus, backing him against the wall.

“Yeah, and the thing is, I had a great time and all—really, she’s a terrific lover,” Klaus adds with a conciliatory gesture. “But, well. You know how it is, right? A guy’s gotta eat, and all that. Bills to pay, things to buy…”

“Klaus,” Ben whispers, “what the hell are you doing?”

The truth is, Klaus has been beaten up more times than Ben can even recall—he tends to have that effect on people. But he’s never openly antagonised someone into a fight. The someone in question is just inches away from Klaus now, towering over him with his buddies bringing up the rear. Ben’s own flight or fight responses are screaming _flight_ , screaming for him to take off at breakneck speed and pray it’s enough to outrun this pack of morons. Unfortunately for him, Klaus has no such self-preservation instinct.

The guy crosses his arms over his chest, juts his chin out in a challenge. “You looking to get fucked up?” he asks, and Ben’s stomach drops because he just _knows_ what Klaus is going to say to that.

“You mean how your mom was looking to get fucked last—”

Before Klaus can even finish, the guy takes a wild swing at him. The first strike sends Klaus’s head snapping backwards, so hard that it hits the brick wall behind him. Klaus barely has a second to straighten back up before the guy is pushing him against the wall, one arm braced across Klaus’s chest so he can deliver blow after blow to his solar plexus. Klaus wheezes, winded and breathless, unable to defend himself against the onslaught.

If Ben had a pulse, it would be racing right now. But instead of intervening, instead of doing literally _anything_ , all Ben can do is hover, unseen and utterly useless, as Klaus gets the shit punched out of him. An agonised groan comes from somewhere behind the wall of thugs, and sure enough, Klaus is on the ground a second later, gasping. Another guy has shouldered his way into the fight, and both of them take turns kicking Klaus in the stomach and stomping on his ribs while the others cheer them on.

The guys let up for a second, and for one excruciating moment, the only sound in the alley is Klaus’s wet breathing as he splutters, spitting blood onto the concrete. Until, with an untold effort, Klaus manages to get enough air into his lungs to form a single word.

“ _Ben,_ ” Klaus wheezes.

The surrounding men immediately break into laughter. The one closest to Klaus crouches down and tugs his head back by his hair. “Who the hell are you talking to, dipshit?” he asks, spitting in Klaus’s face.

But Ben doesn’t spare a thought for him. No, Ben’s mind is _reeling._

There’s something about his name wrenched from Klaus’s lips that has bone-deep terror setting in. Klaus is outmatched five to one—these men could literally beat him to death. Ben needs to do something _,_ literally _anything_ would be better than standing by and watching his brother get beaten to a bloody pulp—

But he can’t.

Ben can’t scream for help. Ben can’t call 911. Klaus might as well be on his own for all the good Ben can do.

“Ben,” Klaus cries again. “Ben, you’ve got to— _fuck_.” One of the guys kicks Klaus in the chest, forcing all the air out of his lungs. They’ve all started to get in on the action now, laying into Klaus with renewed fervour.

Ben hears one last, “Ben, help me _please!_ ” before Klaus falls silent. Goes limp.

“C’mon, is that all you got?” one of the guys asks, crouching down and slapping Klaus’s cheek, as if to rouse him. Klaus’s head lolls to the side, a trickle of blood leaking out the corner of his mouth. “Don’t start something you can’t finish,” he adds, and aims another kick to the vicinity of Klaus’s spleen.

A wave of nausea washes over Ben. Watching Klaus beg for his help was unbearable, but this? This is worse. Maybe it’s a blessing that Klaus has fallen unconscious. Maybe he won’t remember any of this. But the sight of him splayed out on the concrete, ragdoll limp, his body jostled by every blow... It has Ben’s chest aching with a phantom pain. Ben winces with every punch, flinches with every kick.

It feels like it lasts for hours. By the time the guys back off, Klaus’s right eye is swollen shut, his t-shirt sticky with blood. They make a few more disparaging comments, all in the same vein of _teach that asshole a lesson_ , but Ben barely hears any of it, too panicked to do anything but pray that Klaus has pulled through.

The men haven’t even fully retreated before Ben is rushing to Klaus’s side and sinking to his knees, already reaching for him. Close, but not touching.

“Klaus,” Ben says, and Ben wants nothing more than to be able to squeeze Klaus’s shoulder, to rouse him. To see his eyes slide open just a sliver, just enough to let Ben know he’s still alive. “Klaus, please wake up.”

Klaus doesn’t wake, but his chest still rises and falls—unevenly, as if it hurts to breathe. Ben’s relief is almost palpable, but it ebbs quickly. Who knows what state Klaus will be in when— _if—_ he wakes up? Who knows what kind of damage these men have done? The despair eats away at Ben like something corrosive, and Ben’s about to try rousing Klaus again when he hears, very faintly—

“S’pposed to save me.”

Ben’s eyes widen. Klaus’s lip is split and his teeth are stained with blood, and Ben fixates on his mouth, willing him to keep talking. Ben feels breathless—more breathless than usual, somehow—like he’s had the wind knocked out of him too.

“Klaus? What did you say?”

Klaus is silent for a long time, and Ben thinks he might have passed out again. Ben plays the words over and over in his head, but there’s no mistaking that he said—

“You were supposed to save me,” Klaus says slowly, one syllable at a time, as if it hurts to speak. Ben goes cold all over. If watching Klaus get beaten up was bad, this is somehow worse.

“Klaus, you know I can’t—you know I’m not—” Ben’s voice catches on the word _real_ , but he can’t bring himself to say it. His eyes prickle as his vision blurs, and fuck, he is _not_ about to start crying over this, not now.

Ben takes a steadying breath—or what passes for one anyway—and manages to say, “Klaus, you know I can’t interact with the physical world.”

Klaus is quiet again, and Ben’s not even sure he heard him. With his eyes closed, it’s hard to tell. But then Klaus is nodding, a minute movement of his head, like making an affirmative sound is just too hard for him.

“Okay,” Klaus mumbles after a while, still not opening his eyes. “S’okay. Forget about it.”

Ben rolls his eyes, because there’s no way he’ll ever be able to forget _this_. But Klaus is already beginning the arduous job of rolling onto his side and trying to get his legs under him. Faced with the task of getting Klaus home safely, Ben abandons his line of questioning, deciding to bring up the incident some other time—preferably one when Klaus isn’t bleeding from an open head wound.

Later, Ben would come to recognise this as his second mistake.

*

It takes Klaus three weeks to recover from the fight.

Three weeks of Klaus passed out in their apartment, drugged to the gills on oxycodone or morphine or whatever he can get his hands on. Ben keeps a constant vigil, watching Klaus’s bruises fade from blue, to purple, to yellow, itching to reach out to him. But even when Klaus is conscious, there’s nothing. No recognition, no acknowledgement—nothing, as if Ben weren’t even there. Ben knows Klaus can get like this sometimes: when he’s too fucked out (from the drugs) or too fucked up (by his emotions) that he can’t—or chooses not to—see Ben. 

Ben spends endless hours bumming around the apartment, passing the time as best he can, and reading anything he can get his hands on. Unfortunately for him, there’s not a lot of choice on hand.

“You know, being dead’s a real drag, right?” Ben asks, peering up from a battered copy of _The Da Vinci Code_.

Klaus, who is passed out on the living room couch, doesn’t respond.

*

The next time Klaus talks to Ben, they are—inexplicably—on the roof of a building.

Klaus is rolling a cigarette, licking the paper in a way that Ben decidedly chooses _not_ to fixate on, when he suddenly calls out.

“Ben? You there?”

Ben, who’s standing about twenty feet behind and to the left of Klaus, can only sigh as Klaus addresses thin air. “Listen Ben, I’m sorry I’ve been sort of—sort of distant, and I know you’re probably mad at me. But if you think about it, I’m the only friend you’ve got left, so if I were you, I would consider taking that giant stick out of your ass and—”

“I’m right here, Klaus.”

Klaus yelps, jumps about half a foot into the air, and drops his carefully-rolled cigarette. For a guy who routinely communes with the dead, Klaus is easily spooked to an almost comical degree.

“Ben!” Klaus exclaims, turning to face him. He extends his hands, palms open and fingers spread, in what he probably thinks is a conciliatory gesture. Ben is unmoved.

“Klaus,” Ben replies tonelessly.

“It’s so good to see you again!”

Ben shrugs. “I’ve been here.”

Klaus doesn’t have the grace to look even slightly abashed. “Look, I’ve been thinking about what happened a few weeks back, and I think—”

“You mean when you goaded half a dozen drunken idiots into beating you to a pulp? Yeah, I’ve been wanting to discuss that with you, but you’ve been freezing me out.”

Klaus holds up his hands in a _don’t shoot_ gesture. “I hear you. Loud and clear.” Ben raises an eyebrow. He’s learned to employ a healthy dose of scepticism where Klaus is concerned. “No really,” Klaus adds, taking a step backwards and away from Ben. “I’ve learned my lesson.”

“And you’re waiting ‘til now to tell me this?”

These circumstances certainly are strange, although it’s not unusual for Klaus to seek out rooftops. When they were kids, they always used to escape to the roof whenever Dad was in one of his moods—which was almost always, now that Ben thinks about it. It’s one of the precious few happy memories Ben has from his childhood, and something about it seems to have stuck for Klaus too. Even now Ben likes it up here, with the stars stretched overhead and the clouds forming pictures in the sky. It’s probably the only habit Klaus has picked up that Ben can actually abide which, to be fair, isn’t saying much.

“—probably about the time that the fourth—wait, were there five guys? I think there were five,” Klaus is saying, _has_ been saying for the last several minutes. “Anyway, by the time the fourth one started kicking me, I realised that it probably wasn’t the best idea, but obviously by then it was too late to make them stop, especially when that really big one, what do you think he was? Two twenty pounds? Two thirty? Huge fucking guy, anyway—”

“ _Klaus_ ,” Ben interjects. Klaus falls blessedly silent. “Why,” Ben asks through gritted teeth, “are you only telling me this now?”

“Well,” Klaus says, taking another step backwards. “I think I might have made a mistake last time.”

“Yeah, no shi—”

“You see, the idea was good! But the execution? Not so much.”

An all too familiar well of dread begins to form in Ben’s stomach. It’s almost Pavlovian by this point. “The execution wasn’t good,” he repeats tonelessly. “That’s what let you down?”

“Yeah!” Klaus says, his eyes bright. “With the guys in the alley and everything—there were too many variables. And it’s not like you would jump into a fight even if you _were_ alive.”

Ben’s rapidly-fraying patience is growing even thinner by the second. He ignores the slight, because arguing with Klaus is about as fruitful as banging your head against a brick wall. “Your point?”

“I just thought,” Klaus says, taking another step back, “that you might need something a little bit more straightforward.”

Ben stares at Klaus. _Really_ stares at him. Takes in his wild grin, the determination in his eyes. The way that he keeps inching backwards, step by step, towards the edge of the building.

The realisation gets him like a stone in the pit of his stomach. “Klaus, _no_.” 

Klaus grins even brighter. “C’mon Ben, I know you can do this.”

“I really, emphatically, cannot.”

Klaus casts a look over his shoulder, towards the ledge. “Well,” he says, closing the gap. “There’s only one way to find out.”

“Wait—”

Without giving it a second thought, Ben steps forward and reaches for Klaus, an old habit from a past life. His hand—like always—passes straight through him, becoming transparent until he withdraws it again.

“See?” Ben says. “Klaus, I can’t save you.”

“Not with that attitude,” Klaus says, jumping up onto the ledge. The rail affixed to the ledge is barely three feet high, and it would be so easy for Klaus to climb over it and step right off the edge of the building.

“Klaus,” Ben hisses, and he sounds pissed off, but really, he’s _terrified_. Klaus has cheated death so many times that Ben has always wondered if it was part of his power. How many times has Klaus overdosed, only to pull through? How many times has his life hung in the balance, only for him to be brought back? Even as kids he came through missions unscathed against incredible odds, and fuck if Ben doesn’t feel a pang in his chest—even now—when he remembers that he himself wasn’t so lucky.

But there’s no way Klaus is surviving this—with _this_ being a twenty storey drop off the edge of a building.

“Klaus,” Ben says again, and this time it comes out as panicked as he feels. “Klaus, just think about this okay—what if I can’t save you?”

A shadow passes over Klaus’s face, his grin faltering like a flickering flame. He bites his lip, and suddenly he’s every bit the kid that Ben grew up with: the kid who suffered from night terrors, who was afraid to sleep with the light off.

Klaus holds Ben’s gaze for one long, painful moment, before his eyes turn downcast. “Then I guess that’s that.”

There’s something in Klaus’s voice that makes Ben’s chest seize up. Ben hasn’t heard him sound so small, so _despondent_ since they were kids and Klaus had just returned from a nine hour stint at the mausoleum. This is different from Klaus’s usual brand of joyful recklessness, different from the string of poor life choices that have led to him invertedly endangering his own life. Klaus has actually given this some thought—and for whatever reason, has decided that losing his life is an acceptable risk.

“Wait—”

But Klaus is already throwing one leg over the rail, and then the other, until he’s standing on the other side, the wrong side.

“Just, hold on a second,” Ben says, stumbling over the words. There’s so much he needs to say, so much that he needs Klaus to understand. The words are sitting right there in his throat: _I love you, I’ve always loved you, don’t leave me, I can’t do this without you_. But Ben has always been a coward among heroes, has always been the weak link of the Umbrella Academy.

So instead he says, “Think about it, Klaus. If you die, then what happens to me?”

Klaus frowns, considering. Ben’s frozen in space as the seconds tick by, until Klaus eventually shrugs and says:

“Then you’d better save me.”

It happens in slow motion. Millisecond by millisecond. Klaus extends a hand towards Ben, reaching for him at the exact moment that he begins to fall. Before Ben can react, before he can spur his body into action, Klaus is already tipping backwards, one degree at a time, falling into the empty darkness below. Ben hears himself scream as he lunges for Klaus, reaching for his outstretched hand.

Ben doesn’t know what he’s expecting; maybe Klaus was right, maybe he _can_ do this. But the second their fingers touch, there’s—nothing. Ben’s hand passes right through Klaus’s, seeming to melt away, and by the time it emerges on the other side, he’s grasping at nothing. Klaus’s eyes widen, terrified like Ben’s never seen before, as he continues to fall. Klaus makes a last-ditch effort to grab the rail but it’s beyond his reach, and Ben can only watch helplessly as Klaus falls off the edge and disappears from sight.

_“Klaus!”_ Ben screams. He makes it to the edge of the building, almost too afraid to look, when he hears a tremendous crash. It takes him a few seconds to register what he’s seeing because there’s no way—it’s impossible—

“Holy shit,” Ben says at the exact moment that Klaus says, “Shitting _fuck_.”

Klaus is (inexplicably, impossibly) flat on his back on the top level of a scaffolding tower, about fifteen feet below the edge of the building. He’s also (inexplicably, impossibly) alive.

“Klaus, what the fuck!?” Ben calls from the rooftop.

Klaus peers up at Ben, wincing as he moves into a sitting position. The platform is covered in plastic sheets, and there’s a stack of paint tins off to one side. Klaus nudges one with his foot. “Guess they’re repainting, huh?” he says after a pause. He doesn’t sound nearly as sheepish as he should.

Ben grits his teeth. This dumb idea that Klaus has gotten into his thick skull? It ends now. Ben had looked the other way, had assumed that Klaus would let it go. But now? Their little experiment is over. Ben’s not going to make the same mistake three times. Not when the stakes are this high.

“Yeah,” Ben says with vitriol, turning away from the edge of the building. “I guess they are.”

*

Two weeks pass without incident. And then a third.

Ben can’t physically stop Klaus from going out and doing stupid shit—that much is clear. But he’s also incapable of leaving Klaus to his own devices. Every time Klaus goes out, Ben is right there with him, drawn to him inexplicably, as if Ben were tethered to him by some unknown force. For better or for worse, Ben is destined—doomed, even—to follow Klaus everywhere, to watch him make mistake after mistake, helpless to intervene.

But that doesn’t mean Ben has to enable him.

Ben doesn’t talk. Ben doesn’t say or do anything. Sure, Ben follows Klaus—to nightclubs, to strangers’ houses—but Ben doesn’t pay him the slightest bit of attention. And while Klaus might be the most self-centred, most oblivious person Ben’s ever met, even he seems to pick up on Ben’s indifference. Klaus fucked up in a _big_ way, a huge way, and the worst part is, he made Ben an accomplice. _Twice_. That’s not something Ben can readily forget.

Maybe it’s because of Ben’s actions, or because Klaus himself is upset, or maybe it’s sheer coincidence, but after that night on the rooftop, Klaus eases up a little. Spends more time at home, less time out. Less time out means less time getting wasted or getting fucked, or doing any number of the ill-advised activities that Klaus does on the regular to cope with the colossal mess of his life. 

By the fourth week, Ben has started to see a silver lining. Started to realise that although what Klaus did was massively fucked up even compared to his less-than-stellar track record, he seems to have come out better for it. So Ben eases up on the silent treatment, starts to be a little more present. And for a while, it’s nice; the two of them hanging out like the brothers they were supposed to be, swapping stories and killing time. Until—

“What’s that?” Ben asks.

It’s early—early by their standards, at least—and Klaus is already up and puttering around their apartment. Technically it’s not theirs, but they’ve been squatting here for so long that Ben’s come to think of it as their own.

“What’s what?”

“That thing you’re holding.”

Klaus looks down to his own clenched fist where he’s holding a packet of—something. “Oh,” he says, sounding faintly surprised, as if he’d forgotten he was holding it. “You’ll see, come on.”

Klaus grabs a bottle of water off the counter and disappears into the adjoining bathroom. Ben watches his retreating back, hesitant. Ben doesn’t usually follow Klaus into the bathroom; he still has a sense of decorum, even if Klaus clearly doesn’t. But this time Ben’s curiosity wins out, and before he knows it he’s hovering in the doorway, watching Klaus with interest.

“Um,” Ben says by way of announcing his presence. “What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like?” Klaus is wedging himself into the tiny space between the radiator and the toilet, settling in so he’s seated on the floor. It’s not the strangest thing Ben’s ever observed, but it’s up there.

“It looks like you don’t understand how to use a toilet. Pretty sure you’re supposed to sit _on_ it.”

“Har har,” Klaus mutters, tearing the packet open with his teeth. A dozen zip ties spill out of the packet, thin black strips littering the floor.

“Klaus—” Ben starts, but Klaus isn’t paying attention. He’s absorbed in his task of affixing one of the ties around the point where the radiator is bolted to the wall, fastening it loosely so it forms a large loop.

“Klaus, tell me you’re not— _no_.”

“Don’t you get bored of constantly criticising me?” Klaus asks, taking a new tie and looping it around his wrists.

“Are you kidding? That’s my greatest joy in life,” Ben deadpans.

Klaus doesn’t reply, is too busy using his teeth to tighten the tie around his wrists. A familiar wave of dread washes over Ben. He doesn’t know what’s going on here, only knows that it’s not going anywhere good.

“Seriously, Klaus,” Ben says, trying to keep his voice even. “What is this?” 

“’m getting clean,” Klaus says around a mouthful of zip tie.

“You are?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Getting clean?”

“Yep,” Klaus says, looping a third tie between his wrists and the loop already hanging off the radiator.

Ben stares at him blankly for one, two, three seconds, before blurting out, “Are you out of your mind?”

Klaus frowns, more confusion than disapproval. “I thought you’d be happy for me.”

Ben crosses the space between them in two easy strides, then crouches down to meet Klaus eye-to-eye. “Klaus. Think about this. You’ve been using for, what, fifteen years now?” 

Klaus secures the middle tie, letting out a mumbled, “Who’s counting?”

“It’s been a long time, is my point. And some of the stuff you’ve been taking—it’s heavy. You need rehab, you need to detox, you can’t just quit like this Klaus, it could kill you.”

“Really?” There’s something about the forced nonchalance in Klaus’s tone, the way he doesn’t quite meet Ben’s eyes, that hits Ben like a brick to the face.

Oh fuck.

Oh _fuck_.

“Klaus,” Ben says, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “What’s really going on here?”

“What’s going on,” Klaus says, tugging on the ties and testing their give, “is that I’m getting clean. Like I just said. They way you’ve been nagging at me—”

“I don’t _nag._ ”

“—to do for the last, what did you say? Decade and a half? Gosh, has it been that long?” Klaus settles into the lotus position as best he can, stuck between the radiator and the toilet. “Anyway, I’m back on the wagon, hitting the straight and narrow. Cold turkey, as the kids say.”

There’s a tremor in Ben’s hands when he reaches for Klaus. Ben hesitates, his hand half an inch away from Klaus’s, hovering almost close enough to touch. “Klaus, please don’t do this.” The plea sounds feeble and weak to Ben’s own ears, and Ben is so, so tired. “Just—not like this.”

When Klaus smiles, it doesn’t reach his eyes, and that alone is the furthest thing from reassuring. “I’ve got everything I need here. I’ve got a bottle of water, a toilet. It’s going to be fine. You’ll see.”

*

It’s not fine.

Ben is no stranger to passing empty hours, doing nothing more but watching the clock wind down, his life passing him by one second at a time. But this? This is a new torture. Watching Klaus suffer for hours: no distractions, and no end in sight.

Klaus makes it six hours before he dissolves into sheer panic, six hours before he’s tugging at the ties, his whole body trembling, begging Ben to please do something, _anything._

“I have—” Klaus stutters to a halt, his teeth chattering. He’s covered in a fine sheen of sweat, yet he’s still shivering despite being literally tethered to the radiator. “Pills,” Klaus finally grates out, “in my drawer. You can get them—”

“Klaus,” Ben says, keeping his voice low, soft. “I can’t get them for you. You know that.”

Klaus mumbles something about how Ben has no trouble getting himself books. Ben catches the words _selfish asshole_ and tactfully decides not to comment.

“Please,” Klaus says, his eyes wide and unfocused. “I need—I need—”

“You need a doctor,” Ben says slowly. “Klaus, you shouldn’t have to do this alone. There’s medicine that can help you through this.”

Klaus shakes his head so vigorously that he hits it on the tile. “Nuh-uh. No doctors.”

“Klaus—” Ben starts, but it’s useless. It’s been six hours since Klaus tied himself down, and maybe another eight since he’s taken anything. It’s impossible to know what’s causing this. Klaus takes so many drugs at once, it’s a miracle they don’t all cancel each other out. If Ben had to hazard a guess, he’d wager it’s the benzodiazepine withdrawal that’s causing the worst of the symptoms—the anxiety, tremors, and sweating. But Klaus helps himself to a fair amount of opiates on any given day, normally to counteract whatever amphetamines he’s put in his system. Which means the worst is still ahead of them, and that’s not even factoring in the alcohol withdrawal.

Yeah, Ben needs to get Klaus to a doctor, and he needs to get him there _now_.

“Klaus,” Ben says loudly, trying to break through Klaus’s delirium. “Klaus, I need you to scream really loud, okay? Someone’s going to come, and they’re going to call an ambulance, and then we’re going to go to the hospital together, alright?”

Klaus moans and shakes his head. His eyes are squeezed shut. “No, no, no, no, _no_ , I’m not doing that, I won’t.”

“Klaus,” Ben says, and this time it comes out as desperate as he feels. “Klaus, _please_.”

Klaus’s eyes slide open a sliver, his unfocused gaze turning to Ben. Klaus licks his dry lips, and says in a scratchy voice, “I’m fine. Trust me, I’m going to be fine.” 

*

Klaus _isn’t_ fine.

The delusions set in sometime around midnight. Klaus has just hyperventilated his way through his fourth panic attack when it happens:

“No,” Klaus whispers, and it’s the most wretched thing Ben’s ever heard in his life. “Oh god, _no_.”

Klaus’s eyes are wide, fixated on some invisible horror. He tugs at his ties, squirming away from a monster only he can see, tears clinging to his lashes. “Please don’t,” he whispers, his voice cracking on the _don’t_.

“Hey hey,” Ben whispers, reaching for Klaus and stopping just shy—like always—of touching him. It’s hard to know whether the delusions are a symptom of his withdrawal, or just how his powers manifest when he’s sober. Luckily, Ben’s had experience with both. “Hey, there’s nothing there. It’s not real Klaus, it can’t hurt you.”

Klaus closes his eyes and the tear clinging to his lashes finally falls free. Ben aches with the need to brush it away, to touch Klaus, to hold him. But Ben is as immaterial as ever, and he’s utterly powerless to act. So instead he says—

“Klaus. I need you to come back to me. Just focus on my voice. Can you do that?”

Klaus frowns, like he’s being asked the impossible. A renewed sense of unease wells in Ben’s chest. Klaus needs more help than what Ben can give him, needs medication and a soft bed with clean sheets, needs a real, living person who can actually care for him, not a phantom that dissolves at the slightest touch. 

But Klaus eventually nods, a tiny, jerky movement of his head.

“That’s good,” Ben says, then finds himself at a loss. He needs to think of something, _anything_ to distract Klaus. A memory surfaces, one that’s well-worn and often revisited.

“Hey, Klaus? Remember when we were kids and we snuck out to the city?” Klaus seems beyond words at this point, and Ben doesn’t want to lose him. So he continues without waiting for a response. “We’d just come back from a mission—the art heist at the Grand National Gallery. And I couldn’t sleep so I—”

Ben’s voice catches in his throat. It hurts to think of this. To think that he had loved Klaus, even then.

“So I snuck into your room to see if you were awake. You weren’t even there,” Ben says huffing out a laugh. The frown line between Klaus’s eyes has begun to ease, his breathing coming in more evenly now. Ben’s unable to keep the smile out of his voice when he continues, “You were on the roof, of course. Getting high.”

“Sounds like me,” Klaus murmurs, not opening his eyes.

“That it does,” Ben says. “You offered me a drag—it was the first and last time I ever tried weed. I ended up hacking up a lung, do you remember?”

A faint smile tugs at the corner of Klaus’s mouth. “You were always such a square.”

Ben feels impossibly fond that even though speaking is clearly difficult for Klaus at the moment, he still has enough energy to insult him. “Yeah, well. You already had dibs on being the wayward son. And Luther was the leader, and Diego was the—”

“—asshole,” Klaus finishes.

Ben snorts. “Right.” Klaus is still shivering, but his breathing has slowed to something approaching normal, so Ben keeps talking. “Anyway, I was still wired from the mission, and I couldn’t sleep. So I convinced you to sneak out with me. I think that was the first time in my life that I decided something for myself. I was always following you, or Luther, or doing what Dad told me, but for the first time ever, I was taking the lead.”

Klaus is silent for a long moment. Ben watches the way his closed eyelids flutter, as if he were in a deep sleep, a dream to be forgotten upon waking. Finally Klaus says, “What did we do?”

“In the city?” Klaus nods. Ben closes his own eyes as the memory resurfaces. It was fall. The air was chilly, but without the harsh bite of winter. The soft glow of the street lamps reflecting off the wet asphalt, the fresh smell of leaves crushed underfoot. He smiles to himself. “We walked around, mostly. Everything was closed but—just being able to go where we wanted, do what we wanted. I’d never had that kind of freedom before.”

For a long time, they sit in silence, the two of them huddled together on the floor of the dingy bathroom. It’s Klaus who’s the first to speak, and when Ben opens his eyes, it’s to see that Klaus has been watching him very closely.

“Please, Ben,” Klaus whispers, and Ben’s stomach somersaults. He’s always liked the way Klaus says his name. “Please,” he says again. “I need you.”

Ben feels like all the air’s been punched out of him, which shouldn’t be possible when he’s been breathless for over a decade. Only Klaus could leave him feeling gutted when he doesn’t even have a body.

“Klaus,” Ben says slowly, patiently. “You need a doctor.”

Klaus is shaking his head again. “I need _you_ , Ben,” Klaus says, his eyes falling to Ben’s lips. Ben’s heart lodges itself in his throat, and for once, he doesn’t have anything to say to that—no deadpan response, no sharp comeback. “Just please, Ben,” Klaus says, his eyes hooded and unfocused, “Please help me. The pills in the drawer or—there are scissors in the kitchen, you can cut me loose…”

Ben’s mouth is very dry. “You know I can’t do that, Klaus. I want to, but—”

“Try,” is all Klaus says, and there’s a desperation in Klaus’s eyes that Ben’s never seen before—not even when he’s bartering his way into scoring more drugs, not even when he’s chasing one last hit.

And Ben—Ben who’s always been helpless to resist Klaus, who’s destined to spend the rest of his life by his side—can only reach for him, barely close enough to touch, and say, “Okay.”

*

In the end, it’s Klaus who frees himself.

After twenty hours of puking, panic attacks, and delusions, Klaus finally tugs himself loose. It’s a good thing their apartment is so shitty, or else the radiator might have been properly secured and Klaus wouldn’t have been able to pull it off the wall.

It’s not that Ben didn’t try. He tried _everything_. Tried bringing Klaus scissors, knives, even the drugs that he was begging for, even though Ben swore he would never enable him. Ben could only watch as Klaus suffered, unable to so much as brush his hair back from his forehead or rub soothing circles on his back.

When Klaus finally tugs himself free, he spends a solid thirty seconds staring at his own wrists in disbelief. Ben winces at the sight of the angry welts encircling his wrists, their edges already bruising a deep purple. Klaus struggles to his feet and pushes past Ben without a single word, as if he’s not even there, as if he doesn’t even see him.

“Klaus,” Ben calls out to him. Klaus is already in the bedroom rifling through his drawers, looking for the pills. “Klaus, I tried okay, I did everything I could think of, I—”

But Klaus doesn’t hear him. He’s casting around for something, and when his eyes land on an empty glass bottle, he grabs it and uses the base to start crushing the pills.

“Hey, Klaus, can you hear me? Please don’t shut me out like this. I promise, I really tried.”

Klaus either doesn’t hear him or ignores him. Panic is clawing its way out of Ben’s chest, because he _has_ to talk to Klaus, he has to make him understand.

“Klaus, are you listening?”

Klaus finishes grinding the pills and makes two messy lines, snorting them both in record time. His eyes are indecipherable in the dim light, two dark wells that give nothing away. Then Klaus is straightening up and turning to Ben, looking him dead in the eye.

“Yeah, I heard you.”

There’s something vindictive in his tone that Ben can’t quite tease out. Ben is stunned. He’s just on the point of cobbling together a retort when Klaus walks straight at him, then _through_ him, and flops onto the bed, passing out with his wrists still bound.

*

Whatever Klaus ended up taking knocks him out good. _Real_ good.

Klaus sleeps through what’s left of the night and most of the next day, and when he finally wakes he gets up, snorts two more lines, and passes out again.

Ben’s no stranger to passing time alone, but this time, it’s different. He’s agitated, unsettled. Klaus has gotten under his skin somehow, has made him feel like it’s his own fault for being nothing more than someone else’s hallucination. Ben spends hours pacing the apartment, flitting from one room to the next, and all he can do is replay Klaus’s words in his head, over and over and over again.

_“I need_ you _, Ben.”_

Ben shouldn’t be fixating on this, shouldn’t be trying to read into something that isn’t there. Of course Klaus needs him, Klaus is a needy guy. More than that, Klaus is a user, he uses people, and Ben had just happened to be nearby.

It doesn’t mean anything.

It _doesn’t_.

*

Ben’s in the kitchen when Klaus finally emerges, looking more than a little worse for wear.

“Oh,” Klaus says, stunned. “You’re here.”

“I’m always here,” Ben says for what feels like the hundredth time in the past week alone. It feels like it should be a bit, a running gag that’s been going for years now. Except Klaus—a man who’s been haunted by ghosts since his early childhood—is somehow genuinely surprised to see him, each and every time.

Klaus rubs at the bags under his eyes, stifling a yawn. Ben winces at the sight of his wrists, rubbed raw from the zip ties.

“Did you sleep okay?” Ben asks, more to fill the silence than anything else.

Klaus’s head is stuck in the refrigerator, and he doesn’t reply until he emerges with a bottle of milk. “Like a baby,” he says, popping the cap and giving it a whiff. Deciding that the milk is fit for human consumption, Klaus grabs a bowl, a spoon, and a box of cereal, and plonks himself down at the kitchen table. “Oh shoot, forgot the milk. Pass it to me?”

Ben stares at Klaus. Watches him pour an ungodly amount of Lucky Charms into his bowl until it’s close to overflowing. Watches him dig his spoon into the mountain of cereal, then raise his eyes expectantly. Watches Klaus watch him.

“What?” Klaus asks. Then, “ _Oh._ Sorry about that. I forgot you—well anyway,” he says, rising from the table to fetch the milk himself.

Ben crosses his arms. “So that’s it, then?”

“What’s it?” Klaus asks around a mouthful of cereal.

“We’re just not going to talk about the other night? You’re just going to play this off like a joke, act all surprised that I’m one: still here, and two: still incorporeal.”

Klaus chews thoughtfully. “Well, yeah. What did you expect?” he says, spitting bits of cereal as he talks.

Ben uncrosses his arms and leans on the table, his palms flat on its surface. He doesn’t bother to hide his scowl as he leans in close, his face just inches away from Klaus’s. “You put me in an impossible situation, Klaus. Not once, not twice, but _three times_. You put yourself in danger, which by extension, puts me in danger. You blamed me for not being able to manifest, you—”

“Alright, alright, keep your pants on. Look,” Klaus says, and Ben’s already mentally rolling his eyes at whatever garbage excuse is about to come out of Klaus’s mouth. “I just wanted to try out a couple of things, and I thought that if I got a little messed up in the process, it would be worth it. I guess I just—I missed you.”

Ben feels as though he’s been punched in the stomach. Of all the countless things Klaus could have said to defend his actions, Ben never would have guessed he’d say _this_.

“I’m right here,” Ben hears himself say. Weakly, as if he’s unsure of that fact.

“I know,” Klaus says. He extends a hand as if to reach for Ben, then changes his mind mid-gesture and picks up his spoon instead. “It’s just—it’s not the same.”

Klaus’s eyes are wide with sincerity, his mouth twisted into a frown. All of Ben’s frustration—all his indignation seems to melt away in an instant, and if Ben didn’t already know that he’s helplessly and irrevocably doomed, then he sure as hell knows it now.

“I know,” is all that Ben can muster in response, hating the way his voice trembles on those two simple words. And for the first time, Ben sees it from Klaus’s point of view: because whether it’s getting beaten up or jumping off a building, surely _anything_ has to feel better than this.

*

To his credit—and this isn’t something that Ben gives generously—Klaus does drop it. Ben is on edge in the weeks that follow, wary of Klaus’s every move. Cautious. Klaus is never exactly forthright about his plans, which shouldn’t be an issue considering his overarching motivation for any given act often amounts to outright hedonism. But now, he’s even more secretive. Ben’s kept in a state of constant anticipation, always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But it never comes.

Klaus goes back to doing what Klaus does—hedonism, Ben reminds himself. And Ben, like always, follows him around like a lost puppy, begging to see a movie or go to a museum, or do literally any activity that would be of interest to himself. And Klaus, like always, ignores his every request, opting for raves and nightclubs, always chasing the next high.

It’s fine. Normal, even. Ben likes normal.

And yet, for some reason, Ben’s gut is telling him that they’re on the precipice of something _big_ , that there’s something unfolding before them, just out of arm’s reach.

“What’s wrong?” Klaus asks unprompted, late one night.

It takes Ben a moment to shake himself out of his stupor. To reorient himself. They’re on the subway, making their way home at some ungodly hour. Klaus is so fucked up he can barely sit upright, has resorted to sprawling over two pairs of seats so he’s more horizontal than not. And yet, he still has the presence of mind to notice something’s off.

“Do you ever think—” Ben starts, then breaks off. Klaus’s eyes are wide and so, so earnest, and every last twisted, complicated feeling Ben has for Klaus hits him all at once.

“Do I ever think…?” Klaus repeats slowly, his vowels slurred together.

“Never mind,” Ben says, shoving those thoughts down. “This is our stop,” Ben says, partly because it is, but mostly because he can’t bear to have Klaus stare at him like that, not for a single second longer.

*

In the end, it happens in their apartment on an unremarkable Wednesday night.

Ben is in the living room reading an outdated issue of _US Weekly_ because apparently, Klaus himself can’t read, so the acquisition of literature falls somewhere towards the bottom of his priority list. Ben’s about halfway through an article titled ‘ _Stars — They’re Just Like Us!’_ and contemplating what exactly he did in a past life to be sentenced to this unholy purgatory, when he hears a noise from the bedroom.

Not just any noise, a _whimper_.

“Klaus?” Ben calls out, cautious.

If Klaus has decided to rub one out, Ben really doesn’t need to be listening in. Ben is no masochist, and he’s tortured enough without adding self-inflicted pain to the mix. History has taught Ben that Klaus has no sense of shame nor propriety, and if Ben wants to skip the show, then he’d better leave the room and he’d better leave fast.

“Klaus?” Ben calls again. He strains his hearing, listening for any sound of acknowledgement, trying desperately not to think about what Klaus is doing on the other side of the wall.

“Klaus, if you’re going to jerk off, can you at least close the—”

But then Klaus makes a sound that has Ben stopping dead in his tracks. It’s not a whimper, and it’s not a moan.

It’s a sob.

Ben calls out again, but this time it’s tinged with concern. He tosses aside the magazine, and when he reaches the bedroom door, he realises he was wholly unprepared for what he was about to see.

Klaus is sprawled out on the bed, covered in a sheen of sweat. The sheets have been pulled out from the mattress and are rucked up around his hips in a loose tangle. Klaus’s fists are clenched, his brow furrowed, and he’s mumbling something too soft to hear.

“Klaus,” Ben whispers. Ben’s transfixed, rooted to the spot, like there’s a sheet of glass separating him from Klaus. Ben has spent his entire life on the outside looking in, unable to bridge that final gap, and here he is again; hesitating on the threshold.

“Klaus,” Ben says a little louder. This time it’s met with a sob as Klaus curls in on himself, trying to protect himself from some nightmare figure, and covering his face with his hands.

It’s not like Ben’s never seen this before. It’s not like Klaus hasn’t been plagued by nightmares and insomnia since before Ben even figured out what his own powers were. But it’s different this time. This time, the familiar pang in Ben’s chest—the one he gets whenever Klaus is in pain and he’s helpless to stop it—feels sharper somehow.

“Please,” Klaus whimpers, his eyes screwed shut. “Don’t—please stop, I don’t want—”

“Fuck,” Ben mutters. Then he’s moving before he knows it, his limbs acting of their own accord. With every step, his footfalls grow heavier, as if the pull of gravity were growing stronger. Ben’s chest feels tight, like he’s not getting enough air—which is impossible, but—

“Help me,” Klaus moans, twisting in the sheets.

“It’s okay, I’m here,” Ben says, kneeling next to him on the bed. “Wake up, Klaus. It’s just a dream, it’s not real.”

Ben reaches for Klaus, stopping just shy of touching him. His heart is racing in his chest, pounding against his ribs, and—

Wait, _what?_

“Klaus,” Ben says again, his breath stuttering. This time, he’s the one who sounds afraid, uncertain. “Klaus, you have to wake up.”

The bedroom is dim, illuminated only by the light spilling in from the streetlamps, but even in the half-dark Ben can see the way that Klaus is trembling, his face pinched in pain and his body wracked with shudders. He’s still deep in sleep, and Ben aches with the need to save him from whatever demons he’s fighting, whatever horrors are tormenting him.

Ben can’t say why he does it. It makes no sense. It defies everything Ben understands about the world and his place within it. But when Klaus cries out again, a whimper in the shape of Ben’s name, Ben bridges the gap between them, reaches out, and touches him.

It’s impossible. Ben’s palm pressed to the side of Klaus’s face, his fingers splayed out to cradle it, his thumb brushing the apple of his cheek. All the breath leaves Ben’s lungs at once—and he _does_ have breath, he realises—his heart still hammering a mile a minute in his chest.

“Klaus,” Ben says again, except this time his name feels different in Ben’s mouth. Klaus stirs at that first touch, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks, and Ben can _feel_ that, can feel the feather-light brush of Klaus’s lashes as he slowly opens his eyes.

“Ben?”

Klaus sounds every bit as confused as Ben feels, and Ben’s about to open his mouth to explain when he realises he can’t. So instead he says—

“I’m here, Klaus.”

Klaus brow furrows, his mouth open in a yet-unasked question. Ben braces himself for it, but instead Klaus raises a hand—tentative and uncertain—and lays it over Ben’s own. Klaus’s skin is warm, the weight of his hand reassuring, and Ben feels something shake loose in his chest with the realisation that Klaus is touching him, _really_ touching him.

“How are you doing this?” Klaus finally asks.

Ben’s vision blurs, and he realises his eyes are wet. “I’m not doing anything,” Ben whispers, like a secret. “You are.”

Klaus’s eyes widen. He scans Ben’s face, as though he holds the answers, and Ben _wishes_ he knew but he’s as lost as Klaus is.

“I am?” Klaus is still holding Ben’s hand to his face, and Ben prays he won’t ever stop. “I am,” he repeats faintly. Then slowly, so as to telegraph his intentions, Klaus reaches out to Ben with his other hand, just shy of touching him, just as Ben has done so many times before. A perfect stillness falls over them as they both hold their breath (their breath, Ben can _breathe_ now) and Klaus’s fingers brush Ben’s cheek, his touch light. Nerves that have remained dormant and unfeeling for over a decade spark back to life, making Ben gasp at the sensation.

“Holy shit,” Klaus breathes. “You can—”

“—feel that? Yeah, I can.”

Klaus’s fingers follow the curve of Ben’s cheek down to his lips. Ben remains stock-still, afraid to shatter the moment, as Klaus’s fingers brush Ben’s lower lip. He lingers for only a second, but the touch is so tender that Ben’s heart aches with it, his lips tingling even after Klaus withdraws his hand.

“You’re real,” Klaus says, breathless. “I can’t believe—I don’t know how—you’re _real_ ,” Klaus says again, now grasping Ben’s wrist as if he’s afraid he’ll pull away. “You’re really real, you’re actually here, oh my god _Ben_.”

Klaus pulls Ben into a hug, but Ben’s slow to move, his body stiff and awkward. Klaus pulls him down and wraps his arms around him until Ben is mostly on top of him, but still propping himself up.

“Seriously?” Comes Klaus’s muffled voice from somewhere near Ben’s shoulder. “You don’t see your brother for twelve years and this is how you hug him?”

_I do see you, I see you all the time_ , is what Ben wants to say, but Klaus is right. This is different. Ben finally gives in, throwing his leg over Klaus’s hips to avoid sticking a knee in any of his vital organs. He lets Klaus hold him close so they’re pressed chest to chest, their arms wrapped tight around each other.

“Sorry,” Ben murmurs belatedly. “I’m a little rusty.”

“God,” Klaus says when they finally break apart. His eyes are shining wet in the half-light, and Ben takes solace in the fact that he’s not the only one who’s a little emotional. “I don’t know how—”

“You were having a nightmare,” Ben says quickly. “So I came in and I tried to wake you, but—”

“Oh god,” Klaus says, and this time it comes out a little choked. “Ben—it was so bad, I was—”

Klaus breaks off, unable to find the words. Klaus used to describe his nightmares when they were kids, used to sneak into Ben’s room and cry for hours, recounting grisly scenes of ghosts and the undead. These days, Klaus just reaches for a drink, or a joint, or a handful of pills—anything to numb the pain. But this time it seems worse than that, like all the drugs in the world can’t dull the memory of what he’s seen.

“It’s okay,” Ben murmurs, brushing the hair back from Klaus’s forehead, because it’s what Klaus needs, because he _can_. “It’s over now.”

Klaus takes Ben’s face in his hands, draws him close until their foreheads are touching. Ben allows himself to be led, to be whatever Klaus needs him to be in this moment. There’s a tremble in Klaus’s hands as if he’s reliving the nightmare over and over, stuck in a loop, and Ben wants to soothe that all away, wants to make him forget.

“Do you wanna talk about—”

But Ben never does finish that question because the next second, Klaus is pressing their mouths together, steadying Ben with a hand on the nape of his neck. Ben gasps against Klaus’s mouth, and Klaus takes that opportunity to deepen the kiss, to lick his way past his lips. 

Ben has never admitted this to Klaus but no, as a matter of fact, he _hasn’t_ ever kissed anyone before. Maybe if he’d known he’d die tragically young, he would have bumped that one up the priority list. And yet, kissing Klaus is—it’s intuitive. It feels natural, it feels _right_.

After the initial shock wears off, Ben returns the kiss. Tentative at first, then growing bolder when Klaus moans into his mouth. Klaus keeps his hand on the nape of Ben’s neck, holding him close, while the other runs over his face, his chest, anywhere within reach. Klaus keeps touching Ben like he just can’t stop, like he’s starved for it, and Ben—who hasn’t been touched at all since he died and hasn’t been touched like this since _ever_ —can only think, _that makes two of us_.

Ben wants to live in this moment forever. Klaus’s hands on him, their bodies pressed close, and Klaus’s mouth hot and insistent against his own. It’s perfect, _too_ perfect, actually. Which is why Ben isn’t the slightest bit surprised when Klaus makes an insistent noise against Ben’s mouth, and pushes him away.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Klaus says, scrunching his eyes shut.

Ben’s breath catches in his throat. “Sorry for what?”

“I’m always doing this,” Klaus says, now covering his face with his hands. “I’m always—you know.” He peeks at Ben through his fingers. “‘Seeking out unhealthy ways to deal with my problems.’ As you would say.”

A pause. “As I would say?”

“You know,” Klaus says with a wince. “Like, how you’re always saying I use sex or drugs to deal with”—he gestures vaguely—“all my bullshit.”

There’s a ringing in Ben’s ears as Klaus’s words echo around his head. Ben has been raising this issue with Klaus since before he even died. He never thought that Klaus had actually _listened_ to him, let alone believed it.

“Okay, fair,” Ben says after a pause. “But did you really have to choose this moment to self-actualise?”

Klaus’s expression twitches, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to laugh. It’s tempting to leave him in the lurch, but Ben decides otherwise.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Ben says, placing a kiss to Klaus’s jaw, “I’m impressed with your newfound emotional maturity.” Klaus snorts. “I just really”—Ben works his way down Klaus’s throat—“really”—he nips at his Klaus’s Adam’s apple—“don’t think this is the time.”

Klaus takes Ben’s face in his hands, his eyes shining. “Ben, I’m such a wreck,” he whispers, like it’s some big secret, like the fact has somehow escaped Ben’s attention over the last twenty-eight years.

“I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but you’re not the only one,” Ben says, and when Klaus pulls him into a kiss, he goes easily. Ben’s always been a quick study, but nothing has ever felt as easy as this. The kiss turns rough as Ben pours himself into it, all those long-repressed feelings surfacing in a rush. He’s still half-expecting Klaus to pull away, to decide that no actually, he _doesn’t_ want to make out with his dead brother, who’s not quite dead and not quite his brother, but the moment never comes.

Instead, Klaus runs his hands down Ben’s body until they’re resting just above the curve of his ass, shifting a little so their hips align, and holy shit. Intellectually, Ben always knew that sex felt good—that’s why people do it. But even this feels amazing. Grinding against each other, still fully clothed, like a couple of desperate teenagers. Ben never really grew into that phase, and Klaus never really grew _out_ of it, and Ben’s starting to see why.

“God,” Klaus breathes when they break apart. “This is—”

“—incredible,” Ben finishes.

“Yes,” Klaus hisses, letting his head fall back on the pillow. The long line of his throat is far too tempting to pass up, and Ben doesn’t even try. He drags his teeth over the delicate skin, biting and kissing his way down the column of his throat, until he reaches the juncture of Klaus’s shoulder. Klaus is routinely sporting bruises and hickies from someone or another, and Ben relishes the fact that it’s _his_ turn to leave his mark. Klaus groans when Ben bites down, and if Ben hadn’t already known that Klaus was a masochist, then this would be his proof.

“Fuck,” Klaus gasps. It sounds pained, but Ben doesn’t miss the way it makes his hips stutter against Ben’s own. Ben soothes the mark with a kiss, continuing his trail over Klaus’s collarbone until he reaches the neckline of his t-shirt.

Ben hesitates, still expecting Klaus to back out. But Klaus is quick to pull his shirt over his head, impatient even, and Ben is struck mute by the sight before him.

Ben has seen Klaus with his shirt off more times than he can count. Probably more times than when he’s had his shirt _on._ But he’s never been able to touch him before. Klaus is—he’s gorgeous, Ben can think of no other word for it. Klaus is lithe, smooth skin over taut muscle, and Ben wants to touch all of him, wants to run his fingers over the ridges of his ribs, the flat of his stomach, the jut of his hip bones.

But Klaus has other ideas.

“Why are you—Jesus how many layers are you even _wearing?_ ” Klaus is struggling to get Ben’s jacket off his shoulders, and is already tugging at the hem of his hoodie. “I don’t get it, it’s not even like you died in these clothes—”

“Klaus.”

“—and you sure as hell weren’t buried in them—”

“Klaus, _focus_.” Ben can’t stop the smile tugging at his lips as he shrugs out of his jacket, then his hoodie. When he’s down to his t-shirt, Klaus’s hands find his hips immediately, sliding under his shirt. The sensation is unparalleled, every touch making Ben dizzy. Ben can’t even spare a second to feel self-conscious as he pulls his shirt over his head, because all he can think of is how good Klaus’s hands feel and how desperate he is for more.

“Holy shit,” Klaus says once Ben finally tugs off his shirt. “Dying agreed with you.”

Ben’s cheeks go hot. Still, he finds it in himself to say, “I thought we agreed we wouldn’t joke about—”

“Your premature and incredibly traumatic death,” Klaus finishes. “Yes I know, but—”

Ben kisses Klaus to shut him up, and incredibly, it works. Klaus makes a muffled sound against Ben’s lips, and when they finally break apart, Klaus has long abandoned that particular train of thought.

From there it’s a race to get undressed the rest of the way. Ben spends entire minutes struggling with his laces while Klaus keeps up a running commentary (“Why do ghosts even need boots, were you planning on doing some hiking in the afterlife?”), and when he finally kicks off his underwear, Klaus makes an appreciative noise. Klaus’s eyes are dark as they roam Ben’s body, lingering on his cock, and Ben only barely resists the urge to cover himself.

“Your turn,” Ben murmurs, rejoining Klaus on the bed.

“Yeah,” Klaus breathes, shimmying out of his underwear and tossing it across the room without a second thought. Klaus’s cock is hard and flushed where it lies against his stomach, and Ben realises a second too late that he’s subconsciously licked his lips. He expects a quip from Klaus, some corny porn star dialogue. But all Klaus says is, “C’mere,” and draws Ben back down on top of him, kissing him.

If Ben had thought rutting against Klaus through far too many layers was good, it’s nothing compared to this. Klaus gets a hand around him almost immediately, and Ben can’t stifle the groan that rises in his throat. Klaus gently squeezes the base of Ben’s cock, learning the feel of him, then starts bringing him off in measured strokes, his touch confident.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Ben bites out when they break apart. No one has ever touched him like this before, and the fact that it’s _Klaus_ has Ben’s blood running hot.

“Good?” Klaus asks. There’s none of the smugness that Ben would have expected, just an earnest desire to please, and somehow that gets Ben harder than Klaus’s hand on his cock. Ben kisses Klaus and hopes his response is adequate, because yes, it’s so fucking good, better than he ever imagined.

“Should I—”

Ben’s not sure where he was going with that, but Klaus is already moaning, “Fuck yes,” and that’s all the confirmation Ben needs. Klaus’s eyes fall shut when Ben wraps a hand around him, his cock hot and heavy in Ben’s hand, and when Ben rubs his thumb over the crown, Klaus can’t stifle his moan. The sound has Ben rocking into Klaus’s grip, has him leaking precome into Klaus’s fist, and he touches Klaus with renewed confidence.

After that they fall into a rhythm. Klaus’s grip is sure and practised, and Ben quickly loses himself to the sensation. But Ben’s determined, wanting to make Klaus come almost as much as he wants to come himself. So he licks his palm and mimics Klaus’s movements as best as he can, using the kind of pressure that has Klaus’s hips stuttering against his own. Their kissing turns messy until they’re mostly moaning against each other’s mouths, too far gone for any sort of finesse.

“Ah, fuck,” Klaus gasps, pulling away suddenly. “I’m—”

Klaus arches off the bed and tosses his head back, his eyes screwed shut and his mouth falling open. Klaus spills over Ben’s fist, over his own stomach, making Ben’s grip slicker. Ben tightens his fist and slows his pace, milking Klaus’s cock until Klaus is moaning weakly, his hips twitching. By the time Klaus sags back onto the bed, his eyes are wide and he’s flushed all the way down to his chest, breathing heavily. Ben doesn’t have much grounds for comparison, but the sight of Klaus coming apart beneath him might be the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

“Jesus,” Klaus breathes, still in a daze. “You haven’t even fucked me yet.”

Ben’s cock twitches at _that_ particular mental image, but right now, he’s so close to coming that fucking Klaus seems like an impossibility.

“Later,” Ben murmurs, pressing another kiss to Klaus’s lips. Ben is half-expecting Klaus to refute his promise but instead, he picks up where he left off. Now that Klaus has come, Ben isn’t even trying to stave off his orgasm, and it’s not long before he’s rocking into Klaus’s grip, seeking more of his touch. Ben wants to let his eyes slide shut, wants to lose himself to the pleasure, but he can’t bear to miss a second of this.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” Klaus murmurs, and that shouldn’t be the thing that does Ben in, but something about Klaus’s tone pushes him over the edge _._ Ben’s orgasm tears through him, a burst of pleasure that has him moaning Klaus’s name, has his hips stuttering into Klaus’s fist. It seems to go on forever, his own come smoothing the glide as Klaus strokes him through it. Klaus watches him the entire time, his eyes hooded and his gaze heavy.

“Jesus Christ,” Ben moans. He places one last kiss to Klaus’s lips, then uses the last of his strength to roll onto his side before his arms give out under him. Klaus is smiling, lazy and content in a way that Ben so rarely sees, and Ben wants to remember this exact moment more than anything else.

“You’re welcome,” he says, and ah—there it is. The smugness.

Ben groans. “And here I thought we were doing so well,” he says, more to himself than to Klaus. He runs a hand over his eyes, opening them when he senses Klaus shifting beside him. “Where are you going?” It’s not as if Ben could stop him, anyway. Ben’s limbs are heavy, and he couldn’t move even if he wanted to. In fact, he doesn’t think he’ll ever move again.

Klaus cocks an eyebrow. “You don’t honestly expect me to sleep like this, do you?” he asks, gesturing to his stomach. Ben’s not nearly as grossed out as he should by the fact it’s covered in their come.

“I didn’t realise your personal hygiene standards were so high.”

“Fuck you,” Klaus says cheerfully. He blows Ben a kiss and, in true Klaus fashion, saunters out of the room.

“Hurry back!” Ben calls out after him.

As tempting as it is to join Klaus in the shower, Ben is completely wiped. Besides, Klaus will be back soon. Ben’s already imagining what it will be like to spend the night with him, the two of them pressed chest to back, just like when they were kids. Ben wants to stay awake all night, wants to memorise the feeling of being close to Klaus, skin on skin. But his orgasm has left him hazy, and Ben’s exhausted, has been exhausted for what feels like his entire life. Ben hears the shower in the distance, the running water a soothing sound. And as his eyes grow heavy, his last thought is that he really, _really_ should have summoned the will to join Klaus in the shower.

*

It doesn’t last, of course.

(Nothing good in Ben’s life ever does.)

Ben wakes feeling distinctly weightless, hollowed out. He and Klaus had separated during the night, drifting to opposite sides of the bed. And when Ben reaches over to brush Klaus’s hair off his forehead, he expects sleep-warm skin, and instead feels—nothing. His fingers pass straight through the messy strands, utterly immaterial.

The disappointment is instantaneous, but the lack of surprise is somehow worse. For a long time, all Ben can do is stare up at the ceiling, replaying the events of last night. Trying to pinpoint how exactly Klaus was able to manifest him, and what exactly Ben did to lose that. After half an hour of circular thinking, he considers getting up and scouring the apartment for some yet-unread book, or magazine, or cookbook—or really anything that will save him from cracking open _The Da Vinci_ _Code_ for the umpteenth time.

“Fuck it,” Ben mutters to himself. If he’s to bear the pain of disappointment, he shouldn’t have to do it alone.

“Klaus,” Ben whispers. Then louder, “Klaus.”

“Wassat?” Klaus mutters, twisting in the sheets.

“Klaus, wake up.”

Klaus makes a sound like a wounded animal. To be fair, it is early, and Klaus isn’t in the habit of keeping sensible hours.

“Something had better be on fire,” Klaus mumbles, wiping the sleep out of his eyes. “Oh, hello,” he amends, catching sight of Ben. All of his displeasure seems to evaporate the instant he realises Ben is still naked and lying next to him.

Ben can barely get out a wry, “Good morning,” before Klaus is throwing an arm around him. Or rather, throwing an arm _through_ him.

“Oh,” Klaus says, finally catching on to the situation.

“Yeah. _Oh_.”

“How long have you been like this?” Klaus’s voice is rough with sleep, and he’s sporting some truly impressive bedhead. Ben’s chest aches with the urge to run his fingers through Klaus’s unruly curls, to hold him close and not let go, not for anything.

“Since I woke up,” Ben says. Then, “Can you take your arm out of me? Feels weird.”

“Sorry,” Klaus says hastily, not sounding at all apologetic. He retracts his arm and flops down on his back, rubbing his hands over his eyes. “So that’s it, then?”

A knot forms in Ben’s stomach. “I’m not sure. I don’t think so?”

Klaus cracks open an eye and shoots Ben an incredulous stare. “No?”

“I’ve been thinking, and last night, it was you who did that. Made me real, I mean,” Ben amends in answer to Klaus’s raised eyebrow. “And I think the reason why you haven’t been able to do it so far, is because you just didn’t have the right, you know.” Ben pauses for effect. “Motivation,” he finishes.

“Motivation,” Klaus repeats faintly.

Ben hums. “Yep. Probably the kind that doesn’t involve jumping off a building.”

Klaus’s brow is creased, and Ben can practically hear him turning this over in his head. “You’re actually offering sex as a reward for me using my powers to make you real?”

Ben shrugs. “Your words.”

Klaus huffs out a breath. He’s silent for a long time, which is not really the reaction Ben was expecting. Disappointed, Ben closes his eyes. He’s looking forward to catching a few more hours of sleep, when Klaus sits up suddenly.

“You realise this doesn’t make any sense, right?” he blurts out. “Me. Being able to make you corporeal. I mean, we tried _everything_. And I—what, have a bad dream, and somehow that’s enough to make you real again?”

Ben heaves a sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Klaus,” he begins with forced patience. “I died as a teenager but I have the body of an adult. I can interact with certain objects but not others. Most of the time you can only see ghosts when you’re sober, but you see me even when you’re high. _None_ of this makes sense.”

Klaus’s expression remains incredulous, but he does lie back down on the bed, frowning at the ceiling.

“We’ll figure it out,” Ben murmurs, drawing Klaus’s gaze. “And until we do, this?” Ben’s hand finds Klaus’s on top of the covers—close, but not quite touching.

“This is more than enough for me.”

**Author's Note:**

> A couple of notes:
> 
> 1\. "Do you think you could pick a better time to self-actualise?" is one of my favourite quotes from S2, but it's such a Ben remark that I had to give it to him.  
> 2\. I've never read _US Weekly_ but like any good writer, I did my research, and I really wasn't joking about the whole [_Stars — They’re Just Like Us!_](https://www.usmagazine.com/celebrity-news/pictures/stars-theyre-just-like-us-20131610/) thing.
> 
> You can also find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/scansionictus).


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